FirstBorn
by morning.chickenhead
Summary: Takes place after Season 4, Episode 2. Castiel comes to Dean in the night to carry out God’s plans for him. But the plans are more sinister than Dean could have guessed...
1. Hush

**Disclaimer: I do not own characters or settings from Supernatural. Just the stuff between the proper nouns.**

**First-Born**

Darkness.

Darkness.

Flashing.

Darkness.

Just open your eyes, he commands himself silently. Just open your eyes!

But here, too, is darkness.

Darkness.

Darkness.

Dark.

Dean bolts up in bed. Breathes hard. Another nightmare from hell. Literally.

The room is dark. For covert comfort, Dean holds his breath in his nostrils so he might hear the familiar sounds of Sam's rugged breaths.

Nothing. Only darkness to the ears.

When he expels his breath, it comes through the corner of his mouth in the form of "Sammy?"

Still nothing.

Okay. Gotta get up. Cuz something's not right.

Dean shifts his weight to his feet and stands between the two motel beds and lets his eyes adjust before peering around the room. Sam's bed is made up, a picture of sanity next to Dean's rumpled sheet and quilt hanging haphazardly off the side of the frame. Nothing strange there, except for the fact that Sam is not in the bed.

A sudden flash of velvety black at the window catches his eye and he squints, trying to make it out. But it's already gone.

Dean's hand goes automatically, confidently, to his revolver. His heart, on the other hand, hiccups, sensing where his mind's eye cannot, what is about to come.

The slow crack of the mirror should tip him off, but Dean barely notices. His eyes are, rather, transfixed on something about Sam's bed he hadn't immediately seen: the single red drop on the very centre of the pillow – blood. But the mirror's crack widens and branches now, and the walls quake as soundly as Dean's own welling anger. When the windows shatter, shooting shards of glass onto Sam's bed and into Dean's face, there is only a momentary jolt of painful surprise. Not even some "Angel of the Lord" can keep Dean in the dark for long.

Though sunken weakly to his knees with his hands fiercely pressed to his ears in efforts to deter the goliath-shrill voice, Dean roars through the din. "YOU!" A wind sweeps up and encircles Dean's curled body, wet with welts of blood and trembling in its own bestiality. "What did you do with my brother?!" he demands, barely able to hear himself scream.

The hush is immediate: the glass-shards peeling themselves from Dean's face and returning to their translucent wholeness in the window frame, the crack in the mirror healed backwards down itself, and Dean lying prostrate on his bed, casting his eyes around desperately and gasping for air.

Castiel is heard before he is seen.

"Why Dean, I'm surprised at you. You know it's not Sam I want – it's you."


	2. Fathom

****

**Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Supernatural. Just the stuff between the proper nouns.**

**Fathom**

In one swift motion Dean hurls his body off the bed and stands steadily before Castiel. Face to face. "So you want me," Dean growls. "What I can't figure out is why the hell you would want me."

"If you're going to ask hell why I want you, I doubt you will get a straight answer," Castiel suggests with fixed eyes and a straight face.

Dean laughs ironically. "Because I get such a straight answer from you, o great messenger from heaven."

Castiel frowns. "I can be straight with you only when you let me, Dean. But you keep erecting these barriers around your soul to try to keep me out. That's the influence of Lucifer."

"It's the influence of no one," Dean spits. "I'm human, remember? I have free will. You're just lucky I use my will to kill those bastard demons."

"Rather than kill me?" Castiel questions evenly. However Dean notices the twitch around his left eye as he lets it hang unanswered.

Dean drags in his breath and pushes it out again slowly. "I know who the bad guys are, okay. Demons are what I understand –" He rolls his eyes. "– frightening though that is. But that doesn't mean I'm the good guy. I'm just what I said: human. And I could go either way depending on the moment, depending on what's at stake."

"Well I hope you understand what's at stake, Dean." Castiel regards him gravely. "The future of the universe lies in the balance. The magnitude of this war is – unfathomable. Even to me. Which is why I do as I'm told by someone who _can_ fathom it."

Pushing past Castiel with his shoulder, Dean crosses to the window and glares out. He wishes he could see that black blur again – that it wasn't Castiel after all, but something he could understand. A demon. He fingers the knife in its hilt, ever-ready to sink its shaft into the tainted flesh of a demon's vessel. This he understands. This he "fathoms." Castiel's purpose in haunting him he cannot fathom. The notion of the "universe" he cannot fathom. The weakness in Castiel's admission that his will is not necessarily his own Dean refuses to fathom – although he knows in his heart this is the mirror image of his own feet firmly planted in his father's shoes.

"The war is the farthest thing from your mind," Castiel observes quietly. "Isn't it."

Dean whirls around once more, instinctively though futilely gripping the handle of his knife. "Mind-reading?" he mocks. "Isn't that some kind of freaky demon power? Something 'evil'?"

"No," the angel responds. "I didn't read your mind, Dean. I did read _you,_ because I see you as an open book. Your thoughts are present in the subtlest of your movements, in the flashes of your eyes. I am no mind-reader. I am not like your brother."

At the mention of Sam, Dean's mind leaps back, and he is angry that Castiel has otherwise distracted him from thinking of his brother – of what is important in this moment, of the lack of body in the bed beside his.

"Do you know what an angel is, Dean?" Castiel asks, once more asserting his control over this strange dialogue.

Through gritted teeth, Dean deigns to reply. "Not that I want to give you a straight answer, but no, I guess I don't."

"An angel is what you might call 'the good guy.' I know how much bad you have seen, Dean. I know how it shrivels you up inside. And I can help you find that elusive good. Good – like light. Good – like your mother. Good – _the good in you._"

First his brother, then his mom. Dean feels the flush of anger in his cheeks, but swallows nervously, intrigued against his desires by the idea of finding the good inside him. "You're treading a dangerous line here, _Castiel._" Dean speaks the angel's name with as much venom as he can conjure, if only to maintain a small amount of power where he is about to leave himself completely vulnerable. Now he whispers. "How exactly do you plan to help me find good?"

Out of nowhere materializes into Castiel's smooth and steady hands an immense silver bow, loaded with a black-feathered arrow. The gleaming point of the arrow points directly at Dean's heart.

Taken completely by surprise, Dean can only take a single step back and swallow hard. Castiel's meaning he cannot fathom.

But he isn't kept in the dark for long.

Castiel says simply, "By making you an angel, Dean."


	3. Choice

**Disclaimer: I do not own characters or settings from Supernatural. Just the stuff between the proper nouns.**

**Choice**

With a sudden burst of inhuman strength, Dean rushes Castiel, casts the bow aside with one wide sweep of an arm, and shoves the angel against the wall by the dirty angel scruff of his neck. "You bastard!" he growls. "You didn't rip me out of hell to give me my life back. You did it to use me in your petty, petty war. Even if you have to _kill me again_ to do it!"

To Dean's surprise, Castiel appears to be choking under the pressure of Dean's strong fingers against his windpipe, and he wriggles to try to break free. But this newfound power against what was supposedly invincibility goes straight to Dean's head, and he grips the throat harder. Castiel struggles to speak a few words. "It's _our_ war, Dean."

"Don't get all friggin' romantic on me, Dark Angel," Dean snarls. "What's yours is not mine." With conviction, he declares, "_I. Choose. Life._" And, tired of even bothering with this feathered piece of trash, Dean lets go Castiel's throat and strides toward the door as the angel collapses to his knees.

"Yes," Castiel somehow manages between coughs and wheezy gasps. The affirmative statement makes Dean hesitate. He stops in his tracks and listens, feeling a momentary pang of guilt for the violence he perpetrated against this man.

"You choose life," Castiel murmurs, caressing the flesh of his neck where Dean has left soft purple bruises. "You _chose_ this life a very long time ago, Dean. This life you call 'hunting,' this life that is barely a life. This life that is so close to evil, you cannot even trust your own brother." Dean swivels his head in time to see Castiel hang his head in grief at the mention of Sam. Quickly, Castiel catches Dean's eye. "So you see, I'm not _taking away_ your life. I'm merely shifting it to a higher plane."

Any guilt he felt momentarily is erased as Dean is struck back to anger by Castiel's degradation of his life, by Castiel's degradation of his brother. He wants to shout, _You can take your higher plane and shove it up your angel ass! _Dean wants to cry, _Because I didn't _choose _this life! It was chosen for me, all the way back to my grandfather, maybe his parents before him. This is _not _the life I would have chosen for myself. This is _not _the life I would have chosen for Sammy. _

But Dean does not speak any of these things aloud. Castiel feigned sorrow just to get Dean to look at him – didn't he? And now that Dean's line of sight is linked with Castiel's, neither blinks. It's as if their respective visions are soldered together by a thin, invisible flame. He refuses to be fooled by those eyes. There is nothing of _trust_ in them. Castiel may have some innately-channeled power of the Lord, but he lacks sincerity – Dean is sure of it. That little gleam in the centre of the eye where the pupil should be, that ugly little stream of water trickling out the corner as he catches back his breath – he intends only to trick Dean, and Dean will not stand for it.

"Sit," Castiel invites him, as though reading his mind and contesting the power Dean finds in two feet planted firmly on the ground – standing. He gestures with soft hands to Sam's neatly made bed, but never breaks eye contact with Dean, just curves the corners of his lips up in a neat little smile. "Let's talk about your concerns."

"Well then, Castiel," Dean replies calmly and falsely, ignoring the invitation and standing quite still, "my first concern is that I have no desire to become an angel as weak as you, who lets a mere mortal choke half the life out of his lungs. Or, for that matter, an angel as weak as you, who answers to some ghoul named God instead of choosing his own life."

Disregarding the part about his physical weakness, Castiel sighs, "I know you feel the same way, Dean." He takes the seat he had indicated for Dean and gazes thoughtfully up at the young man's now wavering visage. "You used your free will to _choose_ this life, but you feel like you would not have _chosen_ it if you had actually had a _choice._ You know deep inside that it was God's will for you to become a hunter, for you to become the man you are today. And you followed God's will with your own will. You chose to follow Him. And to _follow_ Him meant to become a _leader_ among humanity."

Dean swallows, and, abstractedly, kneels down and fingers the fine string of the bow where it has clattered to the floor. Not only is Castiel weak, he is also stupid for surrendering his weapon to the enemy. Now the bow is cradled in Dean's hands, now the point of the arrow is gently scratching his chin, a look of pure disdain colouring his face. He hopes his eyes say, _I deign to listen to you only to prolong your pain – before I kill you._

It is Castiel's turn to swallow - hard. Dean's eyes narrow in satisfaction; he has succeeded in making Castiel damned nervous. Castiel continues. "You have a choice now, as well, Dean. I didn't come in here to 'kill you,' as you so crudely put it, without your heavenly blessing. God cannot do for a man what he will not do for himself. The angel that is a messenger of God cannot bend the will of a man. For the will of a man as strong…and as good…as yourself automatically aligns itself with the will of God. All I can do is help you to understand what you've wanted all along, then deliver the message back to God of whether or not you choose to remain strong and good."

"Sounds like evil Santa and his loyal little changeling elf," Dean says flippantly, now scratching his back with the arrow and staring out the window in boredom. "Except good Santa is really an evil Santa pretending to be good. He punishes children whom he personally _deems_ to be bad, but the only reason they're bad is that they don't follow his exact will. Load of bullshit if you ask me. In fact, it all makes sense to me now. You're not an angel at all, I'll bet." He runs the point of the arrow along the top of his forehead, and shivers pleasurably at the effect. "A real angel would never be so weak as to let me almost choke him to death. A real angel –"

"You seem to know a lot about real angels Dean." Castiel regards Dean with a pleased smile, his eyes tracing the line of the arrow. "So you see, just as it was God's will, and as much _your own _will, for you to be the man you are today, it is God's will for you to be an angel. Now here is your choice: you may stay as you are, a human, or you may complete yourself and find the perpetual good in your soul by rising up and flying with me. But I warn you, if you choose the former, your human _form _will stay the same, but your soul will weaken. Your will, no longer aligned with God's, will bend and break, and fall to pieces, irreparably. You will not like the man you become, Dean."

Dean sets the bow and arrow before him and returns to the serious thread of the conversation. He cannot help it. All this talk of his will, his choice, and the man he is…"I barely like the man I am now," he mutters.

"But _God_ likes the man you are," Castiel states forcefully. Leaning over, he rests a light but comforting hand upon Dean's shoulder. And he repeats in a much warmer whisper, "God likes the man you are."


	4. BedTime

****

**Disclaimer: I do not own characters or settings from Supernatural. Just the stuff between the proper nouns.**

**Bed-Time**

All at once Dean feels like weeping. It's an overwhelming feeling, his mind fuzzy and irretrievable as if about to faint. But he whispers back to Castiel, "What in the…what in the world does he…like…about me?" His body weak, and slack, he feels Castiel's hand tighten around his shoulder and steady him.

"You're kneeling," Castiel observes solemnly, cautiously withdrawing his hand. "Ask Him yourself."

But now, with the tears flowing down his face, Dean sways again. The next moment his body lies prostrate on the floor. Vaguely, Dean feels the tense arm supporting his neck, keeping his head levitating above the hard wooden slats. "Okay, so not kneeling anymore," Castiel amends.

Dean is sick with the realization that his physical prowess is no match for Castiel's emotional power. But with that thought tucked in his mind and in the pit of his stomach, he can only force himself to focus on the question at hand. He repeats in a gasp, "What does…he like about me?"

"I'll tell you a story to answer your question," Castiel says quietly, now outstretching his fingers and cradling Dean's head.

"No straight answers," Dean croaks. "What…could I expect?" But a story – really? It reminds Dean of his father, telling him hunting stories, part instructive, part terrorizing, part romance and adventure, long after Sam was tucked into his motel bed and breathing soundly.

Castiel ignores him and continues without pause. "Long ago God, when he was younger and quicker to anger, was displeased with a people of poor leadership and poor spirit. He had invested much in this people by blessing them with the strongest, smartest, and kindest leaders they would have ever known. But before those leaders, the first-born daughters and sons of all the young families in their nation, could grow to adolescence, the people with their poor leadership fell into disrepute by treating with disdain God's favoured people."

As Castiel speaks, the story mixes up with the images of Dean's own young family swirling in his brain. After the hunting story, his father's gaunt, razor-rough face pressed against his in a quick, unacknowledged good-night kiss. Sam stirring as Dean scrambled into bed with him before the light went out, not as with most children, so nothing would grab him from under the bed, but so he could protect his little brother from the dark Sam hated but pretended not to. Dean petting Sammy's hair for good luck and taking in all the stale scents of the room as he fell into a restless, punishing sleep.

"God punished them by sending a plague amongst the first-born children, and taking them back into his fold. The people regarded this act as heartless murder, but God did not cast those children to hell! Those children did not suffer! They grew as angels into the strongest, smartest, and kindest of God's warriors. It is little known that ever since then, God has favoured the first-born in a family."

John racing, panting, through a black thicket from a blinding white light. Mary with baby Sam in the bathtub, holding his face gently, thoroughly, under the clear cold water. John's penis limp. Mary's nipples erect. Eight-year-old Dean, clawing his way up a dusty, sooty chimney. "Do you want the child to live, or to die?" echoes a kind, calm voice. When she pulls the plug from the drain it spirals down the chimney and whooshes Dean down with it, down, down, until his body hits the earth with the impact of a crashing plane, smack in the middle of the black thicket, the white light. "Do you want to live or die?" It's his father's voice. "Please say live. Please say live."

The tiny clean hole in the centre of Dean's forehead is a distraction. The tiny drop of red on the pillow beneath his head bleeds into his ears.

A restless, punishing sleep.

_Those children did not suffer!_

_Sammy's hair for good luck._

_Heartless murder…_

"That's not the end, is it?" Dean murmurs, his eyes lolled back in his head and his face burning with fever. "I mean, what hap – what happens to the others?"

"What others do you mean?"

"The – the other children," Dean chokes. "The – not the first-born."

"I said God favours the first-born," Castiel replies sadly. "The second…is favoured by Lucifer."


	5. Under the Influence

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural. Just the stuff between the proper nouns.**

**Under the Influence**

The sudden mention of Lucifer jars Dean out of the emotional spiral that was so affecting him physically. He suddenly lurches forward in Castiel's arms as though being ripped, once again, out of hell. Except this time, the name of the hated devil thrusts his mind right back down into the hated pit. Icy cold swirls, boxing his screeching ears. Like having his head flushed down a toilet. Probably filled with his own vomit. Choking on his own vomit. The heat of the churned stomach contents searing his esophagus and competing with the cold of the freezing water.

Leaping to his feet, Dean coughs out the hellish sensations and flings a wild, accusatory hand toward Castiel. "How…how dare you?" he spews. "My brother…"

Castiel stands slowly and holds out two conciliatory hands. "Dean, we've already had a conversation about your notion of free will."

"If anyone has free will," Dean snarls through clenched teeth, "it's my little brother. I may not always know what's right and what's wrong, but Sam _always knows._ For Christ's sake, he…he _prays_ to you people! Even if that's supposedly where he gets the right answers all the time, he is _not_ under the influence of _anyone_ from...from downstairs."

"I think you know he is, Dean. You know what taints his blood."

Eyes shut tightly, Dean sucks breath in through his teeth slowly. "It's a little sickness, that's all. And he fights it."

"If you're so sure he fights it, Dean, then pray tell me, where is Sam now? On a happy little virgin date? Out for a midnight stroll to clear his head? Or maybe he went to grab a quick bite. Something changed in your brother while you were gone, Dean, and that something is his caving to the power."

"You say 'while you were gone' as though _I_ was only out for a walk. For four months I was gone, Castiel. I was in _hell_, Castiel! And it was like years…years of my soul being ripped, scratched, eaten and _beaten_ out of my body!"

"Dean…" Castiel speaks in an undertone. "I understand what you're going through. But you have to understand that the same power that violated you so for all that time is the power that Sam is tapping into as we speak. He has it inside of him, and he has been learning to harness it."

"And what does he do with it, huh?" Dean shouts, cringing inside at the possibility of what Sam could be up to without him at this ungodly hour. Still…he was pretty sure Sam wouldn't do anything horrible with it. He had used it for good before – used it to _save_ Dean. "Tell me," he adds, a little less certainly.

Castiel shakes his head. "You'll want to split hairs on this, Dean…"

"He's killing off the bad guys, right? And how is that a bad thing, o angel-slash-good guy?" Dean demands.

With a sigh, Castiel replies. "You are right, Dean, he's exorcising demons. But what I'm trying to tell you is that those demons are dispensable to Lucifer. It's _Sam_ he really wants, for–"

"Oh, just like _I'm_ who _you_ want!" Dean explodes. "Well how's this for not splitting hairs?: 'Pray tell me' what the goddamned _difference_ is between…_Lucifer_ and your precious God?" He feels himself beginning to lose it again emotionally. The blood rushing to his head, he gropes his way through air to the bed and seats himself gently, gasping all the while. It is too much for him, this knowledge of little Sammy's true identity, of the violation he experienced at just six tender months on Earth. And it is too painful, this thought of losing little Sammy, of being not just alone but alone and always haunted by the evil realization that he failed his father, failed himself and failed his brother…failed to save the wide-eyed innocent child who had always looked up to him and loved him with an intensity unlike that from any side-lover or fling.

Castiel is seated beside him, a quiet hand resting warmly on Dean's knee, as though he were comforting a child who had just picked himself up from some bloody gravel after falling. "You are angry," is his reply. "You are hurt. You want to save you brother. This I understand."

Dean gulps and stares straight ahead, feeling he will get more out of Castiel if he listens, rather than argues. Kind of like how, with the whole free will thing, he might do the right thing if he went along with God, rather than defied him. Because in the end, if Castiel was right, the question is what kind of a person Dean wants himself to be. And what kind of a person he would have to make himself if he were to reach down and pull Sam out of hell as Castiel had done for him.

The next words, then, knock with force against Dean's throbbing heart. "You _can_ save you brother, Dean."

Dean wrenches his grave face toward Castiel, listening across the suspense, listening harder than before. "Tell me…please, tell me."

"It is as an angel, Dean, that you can save Sam Winchester from himself."


	6. SecondBorn

**Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.**

**Second-Born**

Dean's heart thuds calmly, even as his mind races.

It would be so easy. It would be so _right_.

It would be what Sam would choose. To save him.

The water closes in over Sam's face, leaving a light sheen of liquid to highlight his red bow of a mouth.

A single bubble flips to the surface, pauses.

Pops.

A tear-drop splash hits Mary right in the eye. She does not wince. She does not pause. She raises the baby's face from under the water, plucks him from the tub, and presses him wildly against her breast. Her sobs are silent and dry as she strokes his wet little head with shaking hand.

Would he have turned into an angel if she had let him die…if she had killed him?

Or would it have been, anyhow, a surrender of the innocent child…to Lucifer?

Dean's trembles, eyes straying down. Somehow the arrow is gripped in the fist of his hand.

He saw it all through the crack between the door and the doorframe. The once upon a time. _I can do it, Mother,_ he thinks serenely now. _I can save your little boy._

"Dean…" Castiel's voice echoes as if from a long, long ways away. As if from Heaven.

"I can do it," Dean mouths. "Please, let me do it."

"You're not alone, Dean."

No longer breathing. Points the arrow toward his heart. A murmur in the chest. In the air. "I'll never be alone again."

It was a fight he heard often. It was a fight that isolated him from birth.

Mary's calm voice, his father's bitter and outraged.

"I don't want a second child, John."

"Do you want the boy to grow up alone, Mary? He deserves to have a little brother or sister to take care of and play with! And since when do you not want a second child? You used to talk about a large family. A big backyard. A dog nipping at their heels. What's happened to you? You're a completely different person than I thought you were."

"I changed my mind," she said simply.

"And what…what or _who_…brought that about?" he demanded.

"No one. I am in charge of my own thoughts, John." She was tired now. "And I don't answer to you, either."

When John cried and they ended up in each other's resolute arms, and went to make love, he wasn't able. "If I can't give you a child," he wept, "I have nothing to give you."

Dean asked Santa for a little brother so his parents would stop fighting. He was good all year.

"What an angel you've been, Deanie," Mary observed as the little boy ran back and forth between the table and the silverware drawer. "Such good manners. And so helpful to Mommy!"

"Does it make you want another baby, Mama?" he wheedled, clutching her around the knee and looking up, way up, into her big, soft eyes.

Dean hadn't seen her cry before, but now they were wet.

"Yes, Baby, it does."

But she knew all to well the other baby's destiny.

Dean closes his eyes and offers up, without uncertainty, a brief prayer. _Please forgive me._ The arrow's point nuzzles his chest like his very own baby.

A hot drop of blood at the arrow's tip is the last thing he remembers before succumbing to a deep and dreamless sleep.

"Dean…" Though distantly familiar, the voice no longer belongs to Castiel. "What have you done?!"


	7. God's Fold

**Disclaimer: I still own nothing Supernatural.**

**God's Fold**

Sam's hand, still held out from waving his brother into sleep, trembles as he regards the angel in his room. He wonders briefly in bemusement if Castiel would be offended by his use of a recently-discovered power he had tried on Dean just earlier that night. But the wondering doesn't last long. There are more pressing matters at hand.

"What...have you done?" he repeats, in as menacing a voice as he can muster as he addresses the angel.

Castiel steps forward, inches from Sam's face, ignoring the threatening hand. "I think the question is, son, what have _you_ done? Do you know what you have just stopped?"

"Uh, my brother from committing suicide?" Sam retorted sarcastically. "What the hell did you say to him?"

"I wish you two would stop calling on hell," Castiel mutters to the side. Turning back to size up the tall young man, he continues, "What happened to prayers to Heaven instead? We haven't heard from you in quite awhile, child."

The reply is angry. "Let's just say I'm still not convinced you exist." When Castiel opens his mouth to respond, Sam interrupts him. "You don't exist in the way I wanted to believe."

"You mean the golden pathways and fluffy clouds?" But Castiel is only teasing. He knows of what Sam speaks. But he wants to hear him say it.

"No!" Sam spouts. "It's not a fairytale I was looking for. It was simply…the good and the right."

"Perhaps the good and the right appear in disguise," Castiel suggests. "Take this situation, for instance. You walk in, you see Dean about to pierce himself through the heart with an arrow. You assume the worst. But what you walked in on, my child, was both good and right. For Dean, there are no more deals with devils in order to save you. Now, he has chosen to deal with _me,_ instead."

"What's the difference?" Sam demands bitterly. "A deal is a deal. What I'm interested is preserving Dean's life and keeping my brother by my side."

"Very selfish…" Castiel observes, studying Sam's face. "But that's not you talking, Sam Winchester. That's Lucifer. For if you keep Dean by your side, the influence of Lucifer will, through you, rub off on your brother. I know you want what is good and right, son. Take a chance on me."

"What do you want from me? To make a 'deal' with you, as Dean was about to do? To freaking martyr myself at your whim?"

"Unlike Dean, you understand the gravity of this war we are facing," Castiel allows. "I'm not asking you to kill yourself. That would even more quickly deliver you into Lucifer's hands." Sam rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. Castiel reaches out, and Sam jumps into an attack stance, but the angel merely places his hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam regards it with suspicion, and freezes up. "All I want you to do is consider that, regardless of what Lucifer thinks, this world does not revolve around you. Think of your brother, Sam."

"All right, I'm thinking of him." Sam's voice is hard and facetious. "Now what?"

"As I already pointed out, your brother was about to choose the good and the right. Why would you deny him that, unless you were under the influence of evil?"

Throwing his arms up in defeat, Sam moves away. "I can't fight with your twisted logic, Castiel. All I can say is, if you all up there want to hear from me more often, I suggest you answer me more often. Why are there people all over the world starving and suffering and seeking with no solace a spirit of serenity? Why don't you intervene? Why don't you give us some hope?"

"That's why I'm here, Sam," Castiel says quietly.

Sam just shakes his head.

"I see you were fighting some demons here earlier," Castiel states, pointing to the drop of blood on Sam's pillow.

"So?"

"You must be exhausted. Why don't you just sleep on all this, and things will look brighter – more _hopeful,_ if you will – in the morning." And without another word, Castiel raises his hand in much the same manner as Sam did with Dean, and sweeps him effortlessly across the room and into his bed. Sam has no chance to fight it. With a tap of the air from Castiel's strong fingers, Sam's eyelids shut in a nano-second.

Gliding to Dean's side, Castiel kneels beside him and places a hand on his forehead. Dean does not wake. "I'm sorry," Castiel whispers, " that you had your choice taken away from you. I think for now we can compromise."

Very slowly, Castiel lowers his face to Dean's. With soft and gentle lips, Castiel breathes a glowing life-light past Dean's as he locks their mouths in a tender kiss.

With a fluttering heart, Castiel knows he lingers a little longer than he should. The blue light haloing Dean's face is far too bright; it might even wake Sam. When he pulls back, leaving his face just above Dean's, he is breathless.

Still, as the blue light fades, Castiel conjures the breath to murmur, "Welcome to God's fold, my friend."


	8. Alive

**Disclaimer:**__Supernatural still has not hired me as a writer in which case I might claim that I, in part, own Supernatural-related terms, words, characters. But I won't.

**Author's Note:**__I have made some small grammatical and clarification changes in the previous two chapters if you would like to revisit them.

**Alive**

Dean awakes shivering. The room is very bright and very cold. He glances from the bed to the window, thinking of his last time waking, and wondering if it was all a dream. The pane gives him no clue. It is frozen over in a pattern of intricately webbed stars. He cannot see out.

"What the," Dean mutters, raising himself on his elbow and realizing he is surrounded by a light bed of large, soft snowflakes. They fail to melt when he touches them to the skin of his warm fingertips.

Placing his feet gingerly on the snow-covered floor, Dean leans over to shake his brother awake. Something in Dean sighs in relief when he finds Sam's body as warm as his own. _Thank God I haven't lost you, Sammy._

He shivers as his mind adds a single, chilling word to the thought: _Yet._

He ignores it. "Sam," he calls. "Sammy. Wake up. Something weird is going on."

"And you're not used to weird yet?" Sam mumbles, tucking his head under his arm. "Can't it wait another fifteen minutes?"

"I think you're going to want to see this."

"Awright, awright."

Sam swings his body to a sitting position, and his eyes immediately widen in wonder. "Wow."

No part of the room has gone untouched by a dusting of snow. Slivers of light descend through the cracks in the ice painting on the window, sending a smattering of sparkles across the room as tiny blinking rainbows bounce from crusted drifts. The layer of snow has a muffling effect, bringing an eerie softness to the brothers' words as they speak.

"I don't even know where to begin with this one," Dean says, shrugging his arms in disbelief and heading for the bathroom.

Sam stands also, crossing to the window and breathing a warm hole into the frost. "It's…strangely beautiful."

"Aw, leave it to you to get all sappy," Dean sighs, rolling his eyes at himself in the mirror. "Think it's the trickster up to his usual friendly antics?"

Sam feels a tightness in his chest, a reaction to Dean's own usual antics of non-chalance and indifference. He swallows hard. "Dean. It's Castiel."

Dean snaps his face toward his brother. He slowly takes a few steps back into the room, his face already gelled with shaving cream. "I haven't seen Castiel for awhile," he says quietly.

"Last night," Sam replies without hesitation, stepping toward him. "I know you remember, Dean."

The two stand face to face now, very closely.

"So what?" Dean asks tersely.

"Snow. Dean, this is angels' work."

"Well what the hell does it mean?" Dean demands. "Snow? I mean, what the hell!"

"Maybe you should stop asking hell," Sam suggests softly, remembering something Castiel said last night. He runs some snowflakes from the windowsill through his fingertips thoughtfully. "Maybe you should take a look inside yourself instead."

Dean allows Sam to give his eyes a searching look for just a moment before breaking away, giving a harrumph, and returning to the bathroom. Sam shakes his head slowly and perches on the edge of his bed. Glancing around, he notices that the drop of blood from the pillow has evaporated, leaving only sparkling snowflakes in its stead.

_Odd,_ he thinks, though nothing will surprise him at this point. He is pleased with the snow. He takes it as a sign of hope from Castiel. Maybe they could be friends after all. And maybe God really does care.

But Dean, now with the door to the bathroom closed, gulps nervously as he reaches under the tap to brush some water against his face. At his touch, the droplets of water freeze instantly to his skin. "Ow!" he yelps as he glares and painfully picks them off. "What the hell is going on?!"

Then, chastising himself for those words, he wonders briefly if Sam could be right. He looks down at his hands for a long, wondering moment: the blue veins, the cracked, dry skin, the purple mark left by the frozen water. Then without another thought, he clasps those hands together and looks up.

"Er…God? Or…Castiel." He nods quickly to himself. "Yes, Castiel. I…need your help. Please…um, give me some guidance about what is wrong with me."

"Nothing is wrong with you, Dean."

"What the –" As Dean turns toward the voice verberating from the mirror, he stops himself and begins again sheepishly. "I mean, what's this? How intriguing…"

Castiel's face, replacing the spot where Dean's reflection should be, laughs. "Very good, Dean. I'm pleased with your progress already."

"What progress?" Dean tries to keep the anger and urgency out of his voice. "Did you make me into an angel after all?"

Castiel shakes his head no. "That was my assignment, of course. And I was so pleased to find that you could actually make that sacrifice." Dean's face flushes, partly in anger that he had been tricked into almost killing himself, and partly in pleasure at Castiel's recognition.

"Whatever, man. What's happening, then?"

"Let's just say I compromised. You see," Castiel's image explains, "you now have a set of angel-like abilities, in much the same way as Sam has some demonic powers. But Sam is not a demon, and you are not an angel. It's merely inside of you."

"Oh, no," Dean gulps, stepping backward and almost tripping. When he rights himself, he continues. "That's too much responsibility for me. I don't want any weirdo powers. Especially this icy snow stuff going on."

"Oh that," Castiel chuckles. "I figured that might happen. Not to worry. You'll learn to control them. And I know you're no stranger to responsibility, Dean."  
Castiel is avoiding the point once again. Dean has to know: "Why did you do this?"

Castiel breathes in deeply as a serious look crosses his face. "For now, your presence around Sam will negate his powers. Around you, he will be more human than anything. And that's what we all need during these dark times. If he is left to take his own course, evil will reign." He pauses to let the harsh implications sink in. "But so long as you're around, Lucifer will have a much more difficult time persuading him…possessing him."

"But won't he just sneak off in the night again? I can't control him! He has free will. And you can't rightfully take that away from him."

"He certainly does," Castiel agrees. "And I'm not taking it away. Neither are you. Sam confirmed with me last night that he wants only what is good and right. All we're doing is helping him to find that. And no, he will not slip away mysteriously in the night again. Your mere presence will negate the thought of doing such a thing." He examines Dean's perturbed face. "Dean, I know this is not ideal. But I'll continue to give you guidance like this, so long as you ask for it." He smirks slightly, and Dean can't help but smile back while shaking his head.

"Here's some inspiration for you." Castiel's voice echoes as his face vanishes, replaced in the mirror by a black and white scene, like from an old movie.

"_Every time you hear a bell ring, an angel gets his wings."_

The characters seem to revel in their own bizarre wisdom.

As the scene fades, Dean shakes his head once more. How was that supposed to be inspiration for him? On the other hand, Dean is very much calmed in comparison to his initial uncertainty. He opens the door a crack and regards with one eye an almost child-like Sam, busy making a stockpile of snowballs behind his pillow. He grins.

When the door opens, Sam isn't ready. "What were you _doing_ in there? You're not even finished shaving?!"

Indeed, the water-to-ice phenomenon means Dean's face is still covered in traces of shaving cream. But it also provides the perfect distraction so Sam doesn't expect the snow-covered ice-ball Dean flings squarely at his chest.

"Oh, you are _so_ dead!" Sam roars through a stunned grin, gathering up his stockpile in increasingly numb arms. But each machine-gun pelt ricochets only against the bathroom door as it slams shut. He can hear Dean chortling loudly from the other room.

It takes Dean awhile to come down from his laughter. Exhausted from this sudden experience of joy, he slides his back down along the door until he lands in a pile on the floor. His back shakes in time with the door as Sammy bangs against it. "When you come out of there, you are so dead!" Sam repeats laughingly.

_Anything but dead,_ Dean thinks to himself in sudden realization. _Maybe, for once, _alive.


End file.
